In the end, the beginning
by causeway-bay
Summary: Angela comes home. That's when she ultimately realizes that things have changed. Story set in a near present-day environment. Postmodern approach.


**I**

Angela puts the key in the hole, turns it, then pushes the door open. Before she enters, she takes a moment to stop and think. Something she hasn't done in a while, I guess.  
I'm her mother, yessir, but my talent in mind-reading has never been front-page material, and considering how things stand now, I have no reason to believe that this is going to change.

Not anymore.

My daughter scans the living-room, that vast space where so many stories in the course of her life started, others ended, and where all of those seem to have gathered now, in this moment of emptiness and utter silence, looking her in the eyes, evoking questions and doubts about whether this, Angela, really is the best of all possible worlds. This room has seen quite a few redecorations over the years, and somehow Angela managed to lead it tastefully into century twenty-one. Easy, I thought not long ago, because without other people's opinions interfering you should not experience too many problems enforcing your will.  
Now I'm not so sure about that.

Not anymore.

**II**

_"You need him, Angela."_ That's what I kept telling her after she and Tony had parted.  
I kept telling her until she freaked. Respect, Angela, for proving able to take in overdoses of truth on a quasi-daily basis for so long until you decided it was time to actually do something about it.  
Or rather, about the discrepancy between the truth and the lies you were assiduously living by, that whole mess which what could loosely be called your life consisted of.

She threw me out. Eventually she did, yessir. Not just out of this living-room she's still staring at like a freshman actor about to enter stage left for the first time in front of a live audience. Nope. She threw me out of my place over her garage, out of her life.  
Both of which is her property. So what do you do ?  
I didn't protest. Nor did I feel compelled to. Au contraire. I'm her mother and I know her. I've known her...well, for how long ? Pretty much all her life, right !? Plus, I'm a psychologically educated broad, ain't I !?  
Well...I am. However...  
Ah, what the heck.

What matters is that I saw the look in her eyes which told me all I needed to know. A look which, on behalf of her tortured soul, beseeched me to grant her time alone, time to think, a need apparently quite similar to the one she's feeling right now, standing there in that doorframe. She had finally become aware that she couldn't go on pretending everything was peachy.

Not anymore.

**III**

I went. And I did so with a smile on my face. I knew I'd return. I knew Angela would eventually seek reconciliation with Tony. I knew the two of them would find a way, come to an arrangement. About one of these would-be certainties I was wrong.

Finally, Angela defies the demons that are inside and out and steps over the threshold, closing the door behind her._  
The key is still in the hole, darling..._  
She turns around, opens the door again, takes the key. As the door closes for the second time, Angela starts crying.  
_Don't cry, dear, mother's here..._  
Her tears run dry rather quickly as she stands there in front of the mirror, looking at herself, a still amazingly attractive woman in her mid-fifties.  
Yes, you are, Angela. Trust me. I'm something of an expert when it comes to the subject of aging like wine...  
She smiles. The teensiest smile, not unlike the one I was wearing when I left at Angela's request.

Who said that the devil wears Prada ? Angela hangs up her black coat, an exquisitely chosen piece of clothing, takes a brief look in the mirror again, then walks over to the couch. She sits down, pulls off her shoes, leans back and closes her eyes.  
Peace and quiet. No problems relentlessly tugging at you like children, demanding your sole attention.

Not anymore.

**IV**

I remember the time when the couch arrangement in Angela's living-room consisted of three separate elements, wonderfully nostalgical in retrospect, but from where I stand now I like this modern designer-made interior decoration a lot better.  
Yes, I even feel like taking a picture of this room with Angela leaning back on the couch and selling that picture to a magazine like AD.  
If only I could.  
Things change, and that, I presume, is why a lot of people seem to believe it's imperative that they freeze moments in pictures, for future generations to behold and worship.  
Only to eventually find themselves the ones to worship what they have turned into icons of a gone past, and that's because at one point they realize the sheer impossibility of retrieving loved memories any other way. Beyond a certain point, they just can't do it.

Not anymore.

**V**

The doorbell rings. Or chimes, rather. Angela opens her eyes. She turns, then, after a brief moment's hesitation, gets up and walks over to the door. There she straightens her shirt and trousers, both articles of clothing as exquisitely chosen as her coat, and both as fine a black.  
She opens the door, and there he is: Tony Micelli, the expression on his face indistinguishable. Angela takes a deep breath, then welcomes him. She invites him in, and as he walks past her she puts up that teensiest of smiles again. I capture this as I have done roundabout a zillion times ever since I welcomed her to life outside my uterus.  
Gladly would I have gone through it all again with a sibling for my Angela, but it wasn't meant to be.  
The two of us made a pretty good team over the years, I suppose, although for some reason neither of us liked to admit that in the presence of the other one.

From where I stand now, everything seems so clear, so easy to understand, making such perfect sense.

My name is Mona Robinson, and I see my daughter Angela Bower sitting down next to Tony Micelli, the man I thought would be a perfect match for her and one crack of a son-in-law for me.  
Not so.  
But I understand now, and it's good to see that the two of them are sitting side by side again, about to engage in what I foresee will be an open-hearted conversation.  
They will have a lot to talk about. Angela needs him now, the best friend she's ever had.  
Maybe more than ever before. Because things have changed.

I'll keep watching for a while. It's so good to see that my daughter finally feels grateful again.  
She should, too.

Most people are so ungrateful to be alive.  
But not you, Angela.

Not anymore.


End file.
